


In Moments Like These

by Incongruence



Category: Star Wars
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Jealousy, M/M, Obliviousness, Pining, bed sharing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 04:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14536761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incongruence/pseuds/Incongruence
Summary: Nineteen years of daydreaming about the wonder and adventure the stars held for him hadn't prepared Luke for how cold the galaxy beyond Tatooine was. It also hadn't prepared him for the growing pains of leaving his whole life behind. Despite it all, Luke found himself making new friends, seeing new planets, and worst of all: discovering new feelings.It had all seemed so much easier in his imagination.





	In Moments Like These

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to start off by saying that writing Han/Luke is so fucking intimidating?  
> There are some absolute behemoths in this this tenured ship that are just…. really cream of the crop. Best of the best. Top of the pops. And they’ve been doing this longer and better than I could ever. I’ve probably read the fic in this ship like six thousand times a piece because they’re just so good.
> 
> That being said this ship deserves so much more content than it has. I think my third  
> grade teacher once told me “be the change you want to see” and I know she wasn’t  
> referring to writing gratuitous smut, but it’s too late to stop me.
> 
> This fic started out as what was supposed to be a quick [prompt fill](https://starwarskinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/586.html?thread=216394#cmt216394) :
> 
> “It gets pretty cold in space, and sometimes the Falcon's heating breaks. Just after ANH, Luke spends most of his time with Han when they're traveling to and from Rebel bases and such.
> 
> One night Luke is just SO COLD and Han puts his arm around him, and then they end up falling into bed together, not to have sex then, but just to cuddle to keep warm. It keeps happening, until one night they kiss and all the rest of it."
> 
> Of course I literally do not know the definition of quick and this garbage happened because I can't write unless there's excessive drama. And sorry about the very, very loose interpretation of canon between episode IV and V. 
> 
> Anyway, happy May the fourth!!!!!!!!

For all of the times he had dreamt of leaving Tatooine, Luke had never once considered how cold everywhere else seemed to be.

Raised beneath the punishing scald of sister suns, with their unrelenting dry heat and equally cruel nights, Luke only knew a life in the harshest of temperatures. He even thrived in it. The sun lightened his hair and loosened his muscles. It freckled his shoulders and darkened his skin. He knew the rhythms of the day, when to best work and when to seek refuge underground. He knew how to recognize an incoming sandstorm just by the hue of the horizon. He worked well within the heat, and only rarely, on the hottest of days, did he ever feel any discomfort attributed to it.

Perhaps it had been a miscalculation on his part, or just a product of his naivety, that he didn’t realize how much climate would play a part in space travel.

Of course, the realization wasn’t instantaneous. Not with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. How could Luke notice the cold when he’d only just learned that his father had been a Jedi? What would the cold matter when he was witnessing his first jump into hyperspace alongside a rugged Corellian and a _Wookie_? Why would his own mild discomforts take any precedence when the entire planet of Alderaan had been destroyed? When they had been taken aboard a moon-sized super weapon? Rescued a princess? Gone on a suicide mission?

No. The cold didn’t come to Luke all at once. It came to him in waves, and only after he was given a moment to breathe. First came the tingling and the clamminess that began in his fingertips and moved outwards. The skin that stretched over his hands and wrists took on an almost translucent tone beneath which he could trace the latticework of his capillaries like fine marble. The bouts of gooseflesh came next, any passing breeze lifting the hairs on his skin. His nose grew cold, too, punctuated by irritating sniffles that he found impossible to shake. And in the end came the bone-deep chill that seemed to creep beneath every inch of fabric, of skin, of muscle. And once it settled it refused to leave.

It was odd, for Luke to feel cold. First: he’d hardly ever felt it on Tatooine. The longer nights of the year sometimes saw temperature dips, but never like this. Second: no one else on Massassi base seemed to feel any cold at all. In fact, their discomforts all stemmed from the opposite. While Luke spent most of his time trying to get away with wearing his insulated flight suit as an outfit, the rest of the rebels seemed to wear as little as humanly possible. Even on the lowest levels of the temple, mechanics tied their coveralls around their waists, undershirts and bared arms out and covered in a layer of sweat. Those who worked outside often went without shirts all together. Han had been one of them: the reluctant helper. Between his work on the Falcon and his assistance with on-base duties, Han had become somewhat of a fixture between the lower level hangars and the tarmac outside. Some days Luke would watch him, strong arms tensed as he carried equipment around and shockingly amenable to taking direction _for once_.

Surprisingly, Han took up an easy camaraderie with the other rebel soldiers. His normally stoic nature melted somewhat, and he looked at ease every time Luke had seen him. He’d even caught him laughing as he worked. Luke wondered if there had been a time that Han himself had been a military man. He fit in so naturally with the Rebellion fighters on base that it became easy to imagine despite the image he tried to project.

During his days, Luke would steal away for an hour or so during the highest point of daylight. He’d wander out onto the lowest ziggurat of the temple, flopping onto his back to drink in the sun. Sometimes he’d flip over and watch the proceedings down on the tarmac, and one such day a game of Limmie erupted. When Han had loudly proclaimed that he was an _’excellent ball player_ ’ and that he’d once _’dominated the amateur leagues on Corellia_ ’, Luke knew he had to tune in. He lay on his belly, chin resting on his folded hands, and watched as the workers split into two even teams and erected rudimentary goal posts. Han sauntered over to the centerfield, pulling his shirt off and shucking it to the side. He shot Luke a salacious grin before one of the X-Wing pilots Luke recognized called game start.

Limmie had been popular enough back on Tatooine. It was easy to set up and play, required little equipment, and so worked well on a planet that already had so little. Luke had played often in his youth whenever Owen had let him off to Anchorhead, but he hadn’t had much foot coordination then, and his small stature meant he was pushed off the ball far too easily. Eventually, when everyone else had shot up in height and Luke had grown no taller than 170 centimetres he took up the position of referee and found great pleasure in mediating the games.

By now it had been at least three years since Luke had last participated in a match, but he found himself immediately engrossed in the sport as if it had only been a scant few days. He watched as Han and a tall, young Duros that Luke recognized as an A-Wing pilot sparked up a quick and heated rivalry. The game was close, aggressive and competitive in the way that battled hardened rebels tended to play. Luke was extraordinarily entertained, offering up occasional cheers, and Han would flash him small smiles from the makeshift pitch whenever the game stalled for a moment.

As the heat of the sun beat down on them, the players grew visibly uncomfortable. Han in particular took on a glossy sheen of sweat, and Luke found that his attention would often snap back to him. First to the torque of Han's torso as it wound up to kick the ball, muscles tensed and rippling. Then to the sweat that beaded along his brow and dampened his hair as he pushed it back from his face. Further then, to the raw power on display as Han out-muscled the Duros for the fifth time as he tried to divest Han of the ball. Luke felt his mouth dry and body grow hot. Han was a vision, and the lazy smiles he granted Luke so freely sent a cloying feeling into the back of his throat.

Luke wasn’t the only one to take notice, either. Under the shade of one of the transport ships, a group of off-duty mechanics had gathered to watch the game. Their gazes trailed after Han more than any of the other players. They’d turn to each other and whisper amongst themselves, only to erupt into a peel of laughter. Han knew, and he played it up, shooting them saucy smiles or telling them to keep it down since they were being _distracting_ in a tone that signified jest. His charm never got in the way of the game, though, and he played with every ounce of his being.

In the last few minutes of the match, Han sent the ball hurtling into the goal. It was a perfect shot that arced around the body of the goalkeeper and careened down the tarmac. He whooped and slung an arm over the teammate who had passed it to him, and the rest of his team pushed forward to celebrate. Between his cheers he sought out Luke’s face above him, and threw him a wink. Luke smiled back, but he felt a chill pass through his spine. When Han turned to murmur something in his teammates ear, Luke picked himself up off the ziggurat and hustled back inside. His break had run long enough.

 

On base, anyone not on nightshift spent the evenings drinking. Though the celebrations after the victory over the Death Star had run their course, the imbibing hadn’t. For some it was just a simple way to blow off steam, but for many it was the only way to manage the survivors guilt. Luke was often among them, either in the canteen or the rec room, though he barely touched his drinks. He’d seen enough rounds of sobbing and vomiting over the past few days to put the fear into him. A few tentative sips that helped to warm his belly through the cold evenings on Yavin 4 were all he allowed himself. The humidity at night waned just enough to breathe more easily, but the dampness still clung to every surface and channeled the chill more readily. Even within the walls of the base the cold followed him, and no amount of posturing could hold Luke’s suffering in for long.

The same evening of the Limmie game, after hours of drinking with friends and too many rounds of Horansi, he let out a visible shudder. Wedge sat next to him, and was the only person who noticed. He leaned into Luke.

“You okay? Are you cold?” He asked Luke discreetly. Luke nodded quietly, afraid if he said anything the barely contained shivers would manifest. Han looked at him across the table and Luke wondered if he’d also seen, but Han’s face divulged nothing and he turned back to L’ulo to resume his conversation.

“Hey,” Wedge said, a hand squeezing just above the knob of Luke’s elbow. “Come with me.”

They both stood and edged out of the banquette they were seated on. Han fixed him with another look as he shuffled out of his spot, but offered no comment, and looked away as soon as Luke was clear. As they walked through the base back to the crew quarters Luke found himself fixating on the point of warmth that lingered where Wedge’s hand had been. It was astounding that no one seemed to feel the cold as he did.

The door to Wedge’s shared quarters hissed open, and he wasted no time rummaging through the storage unit where his clothes had been folded and pressed meticulously. Shoved somewhere in the back, he pulled out a cream white sweater—a thick synthetic thermal wool knit—and passed it over to Luke.

“It’s all yours.” Wedge said, a casual smile on his face. “You clearly need it more than I do.”

Luke immediately pulled the soft fabric over his head. The sleeves were long and he fisted them to keep his hands warm. The garment made an instant difference, trapping the body heat beneath its surface. It felt like being swaddled.

“Thanks, Wedge.” He said. “I’m already feeling better.”

Wedge clapped a hand on his shoulder and gave him a sympathetic look.

“You’ll get used to the temperature changes.” He said. “Took me a while too, and I ain’t even from Tatooine.”

 

That night, Luke slept in the sweater. He still felt cold, but far less than he had at any point during his stay on Masassi base. When he did finally fall asleep (though it still took time) he didn’t wake again till morning. He took a quick shower, grabbed breakfast to go, and wandered over to the Falcon on the lowest level of the base. Chewie was already at work on the exterior of the ship and he offered Luke a warm greeting as he ascended the ramp. In the hall, Luke popped the bulkhead panel where he’d been working the day before off of the wall and set to his task, humming an old drinking song he’d heard at Anchorhead to himself. He found himself easily lost in the work, the repetitiveness was almost like its own form of meditation. He'd actively avoided doing repair work back on Tatooine, but now that he wasn't obligated to do it he found it almost enjoyable.

Not long after he’d started, through the silence, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed. A moment later from around the curve, Han appeared.

“You messin’ around with my cables again?” He asked. His voice was still groggy, like he’d only just woken up. Luke flashed him a sarcastic smile.

“Yeah. And if you didn’t leave them in such a state, I wouldn’t have to!”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“Well, if I have to fly around in this thing.” Luke said, turning back to pull one of the fluid lines out from where it was hiding among circuitry. “and she falls apart mid-flight I’d like to actually be able to see what we’ve gotta fix.”

He could hear Han huff from where he was leaning against the wall a few feet away. Luke smiled to himself. His point had been made, but Han would never admit he was in the wrong.

“Where’d you get that sweater?” He asked instead, changing the subject.

“You’re up early.” Luke shot back. He turned and gave Han a once over. His hair was disheveled and the sleep swell was still visible under his bloodshot eyes.

“Yeah, well,” He started, running a hand through his hair. “I have trouble sleepin’ when I drink, and those Green Squadron boys cleaned me out again.”

He sauntered over to where Luke was working and pinched the fabric at his neck, lifting the collar off his skin for just a moment.

“Ain’t it too hot for this kinda wear?” He asked. “Really, where’d you get this? Sure didn’t come with you off Tatooine.”

Without looking away from his task, Luke shrugged. He kept working, trying to seem casual despite the way the warmth of Han's fingers so close to his bare skin ran a current through him. He wondered if the rest of Han was as hot as his hand. For a moment he considered jerking back abruptly, in a fit of false clumsiness, and falling into Han to find out. He chastised himself for the stupid momentary fantasy, and instead reached within himself for some of his signature snark.

“If you hadn’t noticed, nothing came with me from Tatooine.”

Han yanked on the collar again in response, as if a reprimand. When he loosened his grip the blunt edges of his nails dragged along Luke’s skin.

“That mouth of yours is gonna get you into big trouble someday, pal.”

“I’m already stuck with you, aren’t I? Can’t imagine bigger trouble than that.”

“Ha-ha.” Han deadpanned. He still hadn’t let go of the sweater, and this time pulled the collar sideways. The action was a gentle reminder that Han’s curiosity had to be sated, otherwise he’d keep bothering Luke until he got an answer. Though Han couldn’t see it, Luke rolled his eyes.

“Wedge gave it to me.” He said. “I was kind of cold yesterday.”

“Wedge, huh?” Han said in response. He let go of the sweater, finally, and Luke felt himself relax.

“Yup. Now can you get out of my hair? I’m trying to work here, and you’re being awfully annoying.”

Han huffed again, muttering ‘Wedge’ under his breath as he marched back around the ship. His footsteps echoed in the halls and down the ramp, and with Han’s departure the only sound left aboard the Falcon was the muted bustle coming off the interior tarmac. Luke resumed his humming and got back to work.

 

The time between the Battle of Yavin and the first stages of dismantling Massassi base was short. Packing up any and all non-essential equipment was a foremost task. Dodonna had begun the hunt for a new central base and Leia resumed coordinating her intelligence gathering operations once more. Luke found himself caught up in the bustle, preparing ships for transport and assisting the maintenance crews. There wasn’t much time for anything else, and the evening drinking gave way to early bed times. His cable management operation aboard the Falcon took a backseat to the more pressing matters, and over the next few days he saw Han less and less.

Dodonna wasted no time building a command fleet, and in the first few days a hodge-podge of Rebellion ships from across the galaxy had coalesced just outside of the system. A few of the larger ships orbiting Yavin 4 had gone to join the flotilla, and the timing couldn’t have been better. A scant few days after _Home One_ had joined the fleet and guided them halfway into the Outer Rim, the Imperial Blockade moved in.

The blockade may not have caused any outward hostilities, but it ramped up a nervous energy on the base. Everybody felt the silent pressure the row of Star Destroyers exerted. Though they were barely visible in their orbit, one glance at a radar scan was enough to confirm their existence.

The frantic energy managed to set Han on edge. It took no time at all for Luke to notice the way his shoulders stiffened and his demeanor shifted. Han hadn’t signed up for the Rebellion, after all. He technically shouldn’t have even been on Yavin 4. And yet he lingered as if tied to the cause by some invisible thread.

One morning, flanked by her honor guard, Leia approached the two of them on the lower tarmac. Her presence diffused the argument they’d been having about the motivator and Luke expressed a silent gratitude for it. Han was stubborn on the best of days, but the steady evacuation had shortened his fuse. With Leia around, any argumentative slants Han had aimed at Luke were suddenly redirected. He greeted her with a dismissive smirk.

“Stooping so low as to stroll amongst the riff raff, Princess?” He asked. She didn’t rise to the bait. Instead she fixed the two of them with a serious expression, jaw sharp and chin pointed up.

“I’ve got a job for you.” She said. “Simple intel drop. Two data tapes. Shouldn’t be difficult. We need a ship that’s fast and can get past the blockade.” Leia directed a stern look at Han. “These tapes _cannot_ fall into Imperial hands.”

Han pulled the rag off his shoulder and wiped his greasy hands on it. Leia lifted a slender wrist and pressed one of the buttons on the side of her chrono. At the touch it emitted a small rotating holo portrait of a sharp-featured human.

“You’ll be handing the tapes to this man. Only this man. No one else touches them.”

“I haven’t said yes yet.” Han said. “What if I’m not interested.”

“I’m not forcing you, Han. But this is sensitive work and you’re the people I’d ask this of.”

Luke couldn’t hide his smirk. Leia was good. Business-like where she needed but she knew exactly how to sneak in just enough of an ego stroke to plant the seeds. Han pretended to consider for a moment.

“Fine. But you pay for the fuel. Where is this place?”

Leia clicked off her chrono.

“Tussa Brast.” She said. “I’ll have someone drop off the drop case within the hour. The sooner you leave, the better. I’d prefer if you got there ahead of the relay in case you pick up any tails.”

With that, she turned on her heel, her honor guards eerily synchronized, and marched back down the tarmac. When she’d disappeared from view, Han tossed the rag off to the side. He seemed to consider something for a moment before finally turning to Luke.

“Where the hell is Tussa Brast?"

 

Two days in hyperspace.

Two days between Yavin 4 and an arid, abandoned moon orbiting an uninhabitable gas giant circling an angry, hot sun in a remote and unvisited system somewhere in a forgotten corner of the Centrality. Tussa Brast was often omitted on maps. The closest thing to sentient life near it would have been on Tund, and that was only if the definition of ‘close’ was used very, very loosely.

It was Luke’s first venture back into space since the Battle of Yavin, and the cold on the _Falcon_ felt far more pervasive than on the jungle moon. There was no humidity. Instead, the recycled air that billowed out of the climate vents was characteristically cold and dry. Luke wore his sweater religiously and doubled up on his socks, though neither provided a quantifiable fix for his extreme discomfort. His fingers took on a permanent purple hue and became clumsy.

He spent the first day working on the cable management, systematically opening panels in an outward spiral, organizing the lines, and then moving onto the next. It made the time pass quickly, though he found himself often having to break to warm his hands under his armpits when they grew too cold. Han and Chewie would pass by on occasion, both of them also keeping themselves occupied in the dead time during hyperspace travel. Eventually, Luke’s eyes grew bleary and his fingertips so numb that he stopped. He needed to do something else, desperately.

He replaced the panel he was working on and hummed to himself for a moment. He wasn’t quite tired yet, but he’d spoken little all day. He knew Han had a Sabacc deck and decided a game might be a good way to unwind. Luke rounded the hall and turned towards the cockpit, letting his fingers brush against the dirty bulkheads as he passed. Han was reclining in the captain’s chair, feet up on the console as he thumbed across a data pad. He hadn’t heard Luke approach, and so didn’t move, and Luke didn’t rush to disrupt him. Instead, he stood by the entryway with a hand curled around its edge, and let his eyes drift over Han’s relaxed form.

Luke knew that staring was weird, but it wasn’t meant to be. It was borne of simple curiosity. Han embodied an effortless sort of masculinity that permeated every facet of his being. From the way he spoke, to how he moved and held himself, to how he flirted. Everything about Han was the most raw and sensual definition of manhood that Luke could imagine. He’d certainly never seen anyone like Han on Tatooine, where masculinity was boiled down to how hard you worked and how little you spoke. The two things Luke was poorest at. It meant appraising Han like this came to Luke all too naturally, and he found himself wishing that someday he, too, could radiate such an easy and innate confidence.

“Han?” Luke finally asked, when his eyes had soaked up their fill. He spoke quietly as not to startle, but his care was for naught. Han still jumped in his seat.

“Stars, kid! Gimmie a warning next time, will ya? Sneaking up on me like some kinda ghost.” Han groused, tossing the data pad in his hands unceremoniously onto the copilots chair. He swung his boots off of the console and spun the seat around to face Luke in a single, fluid motion. It was exactly the sort of movement that embodied the effortless machismo Luke associated with him, and he felt momentarily starstruck. That sensation radiated outward from his belly, and he felt a delicate heat ease over his cheeks.

As if he hadn’t been caught totally unaware, Han casually leaned back in the chair and fixed Luke with a lazy grin. His legs hinged open and sprawled out in front of him and he ran an errant hand through his hair. Moments like this made Luke painfully aware of how defenseless he was against Han’s innate magnetism, and found that his body _wanted_ to move itself towards him. Luke let the silence drag on for a moment too long before the universe around him steadied and he found the words he had walked in with.

“You up for a couple hands of Sabacc?” He asked. He hoped the forced calmness he’d tried to inject into his voice wasn’t too obviously faked. Han fixed him with another assessing look, but it didn’t betray his thoughts. Luke felt his face grow hot under the scrutiny. He fisted the excess fabric of his sweater sleeves. The deliberate silence felt like it stretched on for an eternity to Luke, but in reality only a few seconds passed. Han stood to his feet.

“Sure. Just a few hands. Then we turn in.”

Han brushed past Luke on his way to the main hold and left him standing halfway into the cockpit. The strobing flashes of passing hyperspace starlight caught his attention for a beat. It was only his third interstellar journey to this point, and the beauty of the jumps hadn’t yet worn off. Through the din of the ships life support systems he heard the echo of Han’s baritone as it bounced around the curving halls of the Falcon, calling to Chewie that he was out of the cockpit. Luke turned back towards the main hold.

Han was already sitting at the table, right in the center of the curved sofa. A physical deck of cards slid smoothly between his hands in an expert shuffle. Luke joined him and relaxed as much as he could into the stiff cushions. They sat close enough that Luke could feel the residual body heat where it radiated off of Han, but just far enough that they could hide their cards from each other. He found himself leaning towards Han, trying to catch any extra inch of heat that he could.

Unlike a normal game of Sabacc, which demanded focus, the game was punctuated with chatter. They ribbed each other, cracked jokes and laughed. Luke was up to date with much of the on-base gossip, and filled Han in on it, though he conveniently left out the part where half the Rebellion harbored a collective crush on him. Han didn’t care much for gossip but he listened with intent regardless, laughing at the right moments, eyes fixed on Luke’s face as he spoke. It was why he noticed—during their third game—Luke’s ill-repressed shiver.

“You cold or somethin’?” He pressed, and Luke looked away in embarrassment, as if being cold on the Falcon meant he wasn’t cut out for spacefaring.

“Maybe a little.” He shrugged.

Han dropped his hand face up on the table and then scooted the last few inches between them across the couch. He slung an arm around Luke and rubbed his hand up and down Luke’s bicep to generate some friction. A kind gesture.

“I’d turn up the temperature but we diverted the excess power from climate control to the sublight thrusters.” Han said softly. “Guessin' that was a mistake.”

It took a moment for Luke to respond. He was focused, instead, of the line of Han’s body where it pressed into his, and the heat that spilled off of him in waves. Luke, already sufficiently embarrassed at his display of weakness, doubled down. He turned and burrowed his face into Han’s shoulder, greedy for warmth.

“S’okay,” He mumbled into the fabric. “Jus’ gotta get used to it, s’all.”

Han hummed in response, and without breaking the motion of his hand, crushed Luke closer to his body.

“Might take a while, coming from a place like Tatooine. Lucky f’r you, I’m a space heater.” Han said, with all the conviction and confidence of someone who truly believed being a human space heater was a commendable achievement. It drew a soft laugh from Luke. For all of Han’s casual bravado, there were times he let it veer into hyperbolic boasting. A character flaw, perhaps, but a charming and harmless one. He felt a twinge of affection for Han, whose first instinct upon seeing Luke’s discomfort was to treat it with touch and humor. Luke had never had anyone like that in his life before. Owen and Beru, though he loved them dearly, had never been very outwardly affectionate, as was customary on Tatooine. His friends hadn’t been very physical either. Luke found he very much liked Han’s way of doing things.

Han let out a yawn, then, and Luke followed. On their internal chronos it was late, a standard day and a half cramped in the Falcon’s tight interior had been surprisingly draining. Han finally stilled the hand rubbing Luke’s arm long enough to check his wrist over the crown of Luke’s head.

“Figure we’re about twelve hours out.” He said. “Better catch some sleep while we can.”

They parted, and Luke continued down the hall towards the crew quarters while Han hung a left to drop by Chewie in the cockpit. Already the Falcon had begun to feel like a new home, and Luke was desperate for the day to come when he would finally adjust to the cooler temperatures aboard it. The winding loop of the ship felt safe to him. He wanted to feel the bodily comfort to compliment that sensation.

Despite being far more cramped, the crew quarters were no warmer than the rest of the ship. Luke sat on his bunk and considered, for a moment, sleeping in his clothes. But he’d already worn them two days straight and the dust and grime aboard the Falcon had seeped into them. He shucked them off at the thought and pulled his sleep clothes on. The fabric was thin and did little to insulate. With a shiver, Luke slid under the covers and hoped he’d drift off quickly

He didn’t. Han shuffled into the half-dark room some forty minutes later. Despite burrowing under his sheets, It was still equally as cold. Luke tried to stay still and feign sleep. He’d already made enough of a scene about the chill for one day and didn’t want to draw any more attention to his weakness. He listened to the rustle of clothes, and then the sheets on Han’s bunk being peeled back, before the lights fully dimmed.

Perhaps he hadn’t been as inconspicuous as he thought—through the haze of exhaustion—for a mere few moments passed before Han let out an exasperated sigh across the room.

“Kid, you really gonna be a martyr here?” He asked. “You’re no good to the Rebellion if you turn into a popsicle on my watch.”

Luke’s face colored again, though it was imperceptible in the darkness. He shuffled around to face Han.

“Sorry.” He said. “I’ll try to be quieter.”

“That’s not what I’m sayin’.” Han sighed again. “Look, just, get over here. ‘Fore I change my mind.”

Luke didn’t move. Rooted by trepidation and the slow realization of what Han’s words actually _meant_. Han lifted the edge of his sheet in a clear signal of intent and Luke felt his stomach clench nervously. The idea of sharing a bed was frightening, something he hadn’t done since he was a small child still frightened of raiders. But he was so _cold_ , and so _tired_. He wanted to desperately to sleep. Hesitation on clear display, Luke finally dragged himself slowly out of his own cot and crossed the tiny room.

“I won’t bite. Promise. And if nothin’ else it’ll be better than lettin’ your teeth chatter straight outta your skull.” Han said as he drew close.

Luke slipped under the sheet and the coiled tension in his body from the ceaseless chill melted right out of him at the warmth he found there. The bunk was tight, so the two of them had to struggle against each other and the layered sheets to find a comfortable position. It wasn’t perfect, but Han’s body heat was enough. Beneath the covers in this tiny cot aboard the Falcon, Luke was suddenly the warmest he’d been since the sun had beaten down on him during the hottest day on Yavin 4.

“Thanks.” Luke whispered. “This is so embarrassing.”

Han brought a hand to Luke’s upper arm and let it rub slowly up and down the length of his bicep. The languorous pace wasn’t enough to generate any real friction, but the electricity that bloomed beneath Luke’s skin in its wake stirred up a different sort of warmth. That same sensation echoed somewhere low in his belly, and he felt his cheeks heat.

“Nothin' to it kid. Secret's safe with me.” Han murmured. “Now get some sleep.”

Han turned onto his back, an arm above him and the other on his belly. Luke slept on his side, facing away, as close to the bunks edge as permissible. He closed his eyes and focused the radiant warmth that cocooned him. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Luke felt comfortable enough that sleep took him quickly and quietly.

He dreamt of Tatooine.

The searing heat of the binary suns cast down on his front, as if he’d laid himself out on the ground during the height of the day. His back was cooler where it touched the dirt beneath him. He didn’t dare open his eyes, instead he inhaled the dry air deeply. It smelled like the heady sweetness of brandy punctuated by the sharpness of warm spices. Luke relaxed into it and breathed in again, comforted. It was on that second inhale, toeing the fine line between sleep and lucidity, that something registered as _off_. Tatooine didn't have much of a scent, only the faint smell of baked clay. This was real, tangible, _safe_.

Awareness leeched into his mind, lifting the fog of sleep. With it came the realization that the scent and heat he had felt had not been Tatooine at all, but had come from where Luke’s front was pressed tightly to Han’s back. Han must have shifted in his sleep, and desperate for the warmth, Luke had followed him like a clingy child. At once he felt guilty for his intrusiveness. Han had offered his bed to Luke, to help him stay warm, and Luke had crossed a line. He had, quite simply, taken advantage of Han’s generosity. And yet some small part of Luke thrummed at the closeness, at the feeling of Han’s body so close to his own.

Luke must have made a motion as he’d come to the realization, and it roused Han. He let out a sleepy groan and slid a hand back to pull Luke’s arm around him. He dragged Luke’s palm upward and let it splay over the width of his chest, where the steady slow thud of Han’s heart beat through bones and skin and fabric. Han kept fingers in a loose circle around Luke’s wrist.

“Morning.” Han murmured. His voice was low and sleep softened. It reverberated through his ribs and into Luke’s chest.

“Morning.” Luke whispered in return. His breath brushed along the base of Han’s neck. It was sleep-stale, and the scent of it mingled with Han’s heady smell. Luke moved to pull away but Han gripped his wrist tighter and held him fast.

“Five more minutes.” Han said. Luke did as he was told and settled back against Han’s body. “I haven’t gotten to do this in a long time. No time for something frivolous as cuddlin’ when you’re smugglin'. And definitely not when you’re fightin’ the empire.” He took in a deep, serene breath. “Feels nice.”

The admission cracked open a veneer and from it flowed a vulnerability between them. Han, openly admitting that he too suffered the all-too-human need for touch. That he, despite the facade of stoicism, of being a loner forging his own path, needed—even craved—being held. It felt like a secret. One Luke would keep to the ends of the earth if he had to. Han’s honesty pulled the desire to reciprocate from Luke’s chest, and after a moment, he too spoke.

“I never got to do this on Tatooine, either.” He admitted.

Han shifted abruptly at this. Not enough to shake Luke off of him, but enough that Luke could picture the shocked expression on his face without even seeing it.

“Ever?”

“No.” Luke said regretfully. “I was so busy with the farm. And when I got to, um, _y’know_ , it wasn’t like there was really time or want for _this_ after.”

Han didn’t say anything at first, seeming to consider Luke’s words. Luke was still too hazed over with sleep to feel true embarrassment at his inexperience, but it came to him when Han finally found his words.

“Well, kriff, kid, if that ain’t just about the loneliest thing I’ve ever heard.”

 

Tussa Brast greeted them as an ever-growing plane of beige. The Falcon landed on the rudimentary tarmac, a solitary body that all but blended into the surroundings. As the ramp descended, a single Rebellion pilot was approaching to greet them. Her standard issue flight suit had been switched for dusty beige fatigues that matched everything else on the planet. The shock of dark hair on her head seemed to be the only thing to stand out.

“Welcome!” She exclaimed, offering her hand. “Andria Kevel. You guys got here _way_ ahead of schedule. Your relay won’t be here for another two days. We’ve got some bunks to set you three up with if you want a break from your ship. The rest of the guys can’t wait to meet you.”

Luke eagerly took her hand and introduced himself with a wide smile. Han himself was polite enough, but Luke knew by his body language that he was defensive in the way Han tended to be when in unfamiliar territory. His eyes were always roving for exits, ambush points, even behind the easy facade he wore. It was strange, to Luke, to be able to see these small things about Han with such startling clarity.

Han, who he’d categorized as merely brash and cocky with little else beneath, but who had layers under his constructed veneer. Han, who could be sensitive and patient, who—despite his grousing—would help out before the request was even uttered, waving off any gratitude as if it was offensive. Han, who displayed utmost patience when it mattered. It was strange to become to attuned to the disparity between the image that Han cultivated and the reality of who he was. It felt like peeking behind a curtain.

As they crossed the tarmac, Luke took note of the dry, harsh heat of the planet. None of the cloying humidity of Yavin 4. Instead, the huge sun beat down on them, steady and arid. It warped their surroundings as the rays beat back upward and Luke was reminded of home. The prospect of being grounded here for two days stopped being daunting instead, it felt bittersweet. Luke pulled off his tunic so that he wore only his under-shirt and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Yeah, ‘course you like this dustbowl.” Han groused, annoyance thick in his tone. Sweat had already begun to bead on his upper lip and forehead. Luke hoped the climate control on base was adequate, it would be a difficult few days otherwise. Not only for Han, but for anyone who had to listen to his griping. Chewie, at least, had the dignity to suffer in silence.

There were only six other people on the base, a loose security detail that had posted up two weeks prior and would stay on for another week after the exchange had been made. Tussa Brast was a rarely used base, all but abandoned save full two time maintenance droids. It was this same remoteness that made it an ideal spot for a covert relay, far out of the way of just about anyone’s interstellar movements. There was nothing of value on Tussa Brast, only the two bands of barely habitable desert that sat on opposite sides of the equator. The base itself was nondescript. The short squat building blended perfectly into the flat sheet rock that surrounded it, and it was virtually invisible from the air. The Falcon’s soft bleached bone color transitioned seamlessly into the arid plateau.

The interior of the base was substantially cooler. The climate control systems chugged audibly letting out a series of clattering noises that echoed around the base arrhythmically. A fine layer of dust and neglect clung to every surface of the narrow ferrocrete halls. Luke wondered just how long the base had gone unused. Half a decade at least, if not more. The low ceilings were unfriendly to Chewie, who had to walk hunched over to avoid hitting his head. To his credit, he complained only once, when they had first entered. Surprisingly, Kevel understood Shyriiwook and offered her sympathies to Chewie. It began an immediate kinship between the two, and was perhaps the most animated Luke had ever seen him. He felt back into step with Han as the unlikely pair in front of them chattered.

They rounded a final corner that fed into a low slung common room with a table in the center around which five others sat. Three humans, a Sullustan and a Togruta. They all wore the same pale desert fatigues as Kevel did, and so blended into the colorless room around them. Though everything on Tussa Brast seemed drab, the smiles that graced all five faces were bright and happy. No doubt Luke, Han and Chewie offered a much needed break in the monotony.

They all stood up in greeting and Luke wasted no time shaking hands and falling into easy chatter. Han, despite his temperature-related crankiness, maintained a polite and friendly facade. Chewie broke his conversation with Kevel only to partake in quick greetings before he returned to her side. The Togruta pulled up three extra chairs to the table for the new arrivals, and save for Kevel, they all sat.

Kevel, instead, took to the kitchenette and grabbed nine stacked glasses and a bottle of Dodbri whiskey, which caused the stationed company to hoot.

“Hoski, deal us in.” Kevel said as she dropped the glasses in front of everyone at the table and topped them up with three fingers of the cheap pungent liquor. The smell was strong, somewhere between bog moss and engine oil. Luke’s upper lip curled at it, but he took a tentative sip regardless. Han, sitting close beside him, knocked the whole thing back and slammed the glass down on the table before Kevel had even finished pouring for everyone else.

“Hit me with another, sister!” He yelled, managing to pull a laugh from everyone. Luke couldn’t help smiling into his glass. If there were any one thing that could unite nearly every sentient species in the galaxy, it was drink.

That night, Han and Chewie both slept in the base, taking advantage of the cooling systems. Luke stayed on the _Falcon_ by himself. The interior air had been heated over the course of the day, so he left the ramp down to coax the gentle night breeze inside. He slept deeply and comfortably.

He spent most of the next day outside, keeping himself busy with meditation, stretching and practicing with his lightsaber. He loved the feeling of harsh sunlight on his bare skin, and knew that it would darken and freckle as the day wore on. Han spent most of his time inside, avoiding the direct heat, but Luke saw him linger beneath the overhang from the base entrance for a moment, watching as Luke swung the saber around. Though the skin of his face and chest were already flushed from exertion, he felt himself grow redder under the scrutiny and hoped that Han didn’t notice.

That night they drank again, and again Luke slept alone on the _Falcon_ , and again the next day he trained and meditated and stretched in the onslaught of desert sun. And _again_ , silently, Han watched him from the shadows of the hangar and Luke felt heated stirrings in his lower belly at the attention.

He imagined how he must have looked to Han, chest bared, flushed and slick with sweat. His hair, too, was damp and clung to his forehead. Luke was under no illusions. He knew he wasn’t masculine and strong in the ways that Han was. His body was lithe, his stature short. It had been a sore spot most of his life, and he felt embarrassed of it now, under Han’s judgemental gaze. He pushed through it, focusing on his movements, the twist of his hip, then torso, then arm. He focused on the feeling of the bright sun that beat down on him. He focused on evening his breath to a steady rhythm despite how his lungs burned for air. By the time he was done, Han was gone. He slipped his shirt back on before heading into the base to clean up. Spec Ops was due in a few hours.

When they came, every able body on base stood at the open hangar door, some visibly armed. They watched silently as the Spec Ops team landed their blatantly non-Alliance-standard vessel. It was sleek, modern and expensive—a luxury ship—but the kind that belonged to only the wealthy who had made enemies along the way. The weapons systems gave it an intimidating and powerful air. Luke at once understood the need for utmost secrecy, and for the manual intel drop. This was a company that ran deep undercover.

Two people emerged from the docking ramp on the side of the ship. One heavily armored, carrying an almost comically large blaster rifle. The other was a tall man, handsome and intimidating all at once and dressed in exotic finery. The terrifying and elegant energy that surrounded him in person certainly hadn’t gotten through in the holo they’d been shown of him. Han and Luke both stepped forward from beneath the overhang to meet them as they crossed the tarmac.

“Colonel Theo Zanti.” The tall handsome man said. He offered his hand to Han, who took it firmly. Luke watched as both men sized each other up. While the colonel was a few inches taller, Han still puffed up his chest.

“Captain Han Solo.” Han said. The colonel turned to Luke and fixed him with a leer that made Luke want to shrink into his collar.

“And you are?” Zanti asked, extending a hand towards Luke now. His accent was thick and unfamiliar to Luke. Despite how intimidated he felt, Luke put on a sweet smile and shook the offered hand. It was large. And firm.

“Luke. Luke Skywalker.”

“Enchanted.” Zanti said simply, and as his hand pulled back he let his fingers brush along the inside of Luke’s wrist, and then his palm. It shot a terrifying tingle up Luke’s arm and he cradled his fist into his chest as soon as it was returned to him. He didn’t like this Zanti character, despite how trusted he must have been for Alliance brass to designate him such covert work. Luke looked at Han again and wasn’t surprised at the glower on his face. He must have had the same bad feelings about the colonel as Luke did.

“Now that the pleasantries are done with, I trust you have the drop for us.”

“Yeah.” Han said flippantly. Then he turned to Luke, sliding a hand up to rest as the base of his neck. His fingertips pressed solidly into Luke’s skin, hot to the touch despite the dipping sun. Han leaned his head in close, conspiratorially, mouth at Luke’s ear.

“Go fetch the drop for the colonel.” He said, and his breath ghosted across the sensitive shell of Luke’s ear. Gooseflesh erupted along the line of his neck, skittering across Luke’s skin. He bit back a shiver.

“Sure thing.” Luke replied, steadying his voice. He left the three standing on the tarmac, a strange tension mounting between them, and headed toward the _Falcon_ where it sat some sixty feet away. He didn’t waste any time as he ascended the ramp, heading straight for the invisible compartment where the box was hidden. It required removing a set of panels which were intentionally difficult, and beads of sweat had formed along his forehead by the time he was pulling the contents free. He cradled the box in his arms, not bothering to replace the panels, and descended the ramp again.

As he approached the three men on the tarmac, he heard heated words being exchanged. He wasn’t close enough to discern them, but they spoke in low, clipped tones. When he was near enough, Han and Zanti both grew silent and turned to him. Luke looked between them. Han’s face was pinched, hiding a simmering anger. There was a tension that lived in his shoulders, too, and Luke could tell that whatever had been said made Han want to respond with his fists. Zanti, in contrast, stood with his chin up and a small smirk upon his face. He leered at Luke, radiating a smug confidence that at once set Luke on edge. He straightened his back. If Han couldn't keep his composure, at least Luke would.

He held the box out to Zanti, who again, let his hands brush against Luke’s as the exchange was made. His bright white smile split across his face.

“Luke, why don’t you come with us?” Zanti asked, voice low. “I promise we’re much more fun than this hot head. Have you ever been to Coruscant? Naar Shaddaa? Canto Bight? We know the nightlife of the galaxy better than anyone. I'd be happy to show you.”

Luke imagined the way Han would have bristled at this. He imagined the restraint Han had to show as he bit back his objections, which would have only proven Zanti right. He wondered if Han would be upset if Luke chose to leave with Zanti, not that he’d ever humour the idea. Would Han miss him? If he did, how quickly would he move on? It was enough that Zanti radiated a conniving energy, but picking on Han made Luke feel tangible anger and he glowered at the colonel.

“I happen to like this hot head, thanks.” Luke said matter-of-factly. He’d hoped that his tone would finally pull some form of aggression from Zanti, but instead the colonel let out a barking laugh. He regarded Luke down the length of his nose, amusement in his eyes.

“I’m _sure_ you do.” He said. He gripped the box tighter and nodded at them. “Well then, we’ll be off. Best of luck on your trip back to Yavin 4. Send my regards to Leia.”

Another flash of anger coursed through Luke at the flippant familiarity the colonel had used to address Leia. He watched with frustration as Zanti turned swiftly on his heel and strolled back to his ship, armed guard in tow. As the gangway drew back and the ship lifted off, Luke found himself thankful that the exchange was over. He heard Han spit on the tarmac behind him.

“Thank the stars that’s over with.” He said. Luke murmured in agreement. “Now let’s get off this rock."

They didn’t waste much time. Chewie insisted they have one final drink with perimeter detail, who would be off to join Dodonna’s reconnaissance fleet. Han relented, and allowed them an hour to socialize and imbibe. Then they were back on the Falcon and making the jump. Another two days back to Yavin 4, crammed into the tiny cold halls of the ship.

The alcohol hit Luke quickly and he let out a big yawn once they were safely in hyperspace. He’d tired himself out well enough over the course of the day and now felt it deep behind his eyes. He’d go to bed, hopefully wrap himself tight in the blankets and get some rest. Luke swung by the cockpit where Chewie and Han were arguing about something and rapped his knuckles gently on the entryway to get their attention.

“I’m heading to bed.” Luke said. “That whiskey took it out of me. Goodnight guys.”

Luke turned away and headed back down the corridor when Han caught up with him.

“I’m gonna turn in, too.” He said.

In the cramped crew quarters they changed with their backs turned, pulling off their dusty clothes for clean sleep wear. Luke imagined he could feel the heat of Han’s bare skin drifting across the space between them to sink into him. It made him feel even colder at the prospect of sleeping alone beneath the thin sheets.

Once Luke’s fresh shirt was pulled down, Han’s hands cupped his waist and pulled Luke backwards against his chest. The action shocked him and he let out a hushed ‘oh!’ at the touch. Han’s body was strong and steady behind him, and a surprising part of Luke wished terribly that there weren’t two layers of cloth between them.

“Sleep with me again?” Han murmured, voice low and sleepy. Though they were meant innocently, the unintentional subtext sent a jolt of arousal through Luke. The hands on his ribs shifted upwards, impatient for an answer. Luke hummed.

“Okay.” He said. And he meant to turn, to follow Han into bed. Instead, those same hands on his waist dug in and Han maneuvered him into the bunk. He manhandled Luke so that his back was pressed tightly against Han’s front.

Luke had never been held like this. He’d never felt the physical comfort of a parent, nor a lover. He drank in the feeling with fervor: the line of Han’s body molded to his, the safeness that accompanied the age of Han’s arms around him. He tried to memorize the sensation of Han’s breath as he spoke, ghosting across the back of his head.

“Leia’s gonna have more work for us when we get back, isn’t she?” Han said. Prodding for conversation meant he wasn’t as tired as he’d first let on. Luke didn’t feel quite as tired anymore, either. His nerve endings were buzzing everywhere their bodies touched.

“Probably. Considering we got there so _early_. And without the Empire any wiser.” Luke replied. “Having such a fast ship might be a curse.”

Han chuckled into Luke’s hair.

“Maybe. So long as I don’t have to see that damned colonel again. What an ass.” Han groused.

“I didn’t like him much either. He had a bad energy about him. What were you both fighting about?”

“Oh nothing, he just knew how to push my buttons. Can you believe—“ He began.

Han shifted his hand down onto the bone of Luke’s hip as he spoke. His thumb played absently with the hem of Luke’s shirt, brushing over the skin beneath as the fabric moved. The touch was innocuous, possibly even unconscious fidgeting, but Luke still felt a surge of greed at it. He wanted that hand to push up beneath his shirt, to splay over his chest, his belly, running lower still. It surprised him, just how harshly the sheer want of it hit him. He struggled to listen to Han’s words, instead thinking about how Han’s mouth would form around other sounds. When his cock expressed interest at the line of thought, Luke grew embarrassed.

“I’m very tired, Han. Can we just sleep, please?”

Regrettably, the thumb on his bare hip stilled. Han, affronted as he often got, let out a huff and the hand retreated.

“Yeah, yeah.” He said, turning over. “G’night kid.”

 

Han’s suspicions confirmed, Leia met them on the interior tarmac and before she’d even congratulated them, gave them another assignment.

“It’s easy enough, and you can have a day to relax here on base.” She said. “Just need a few things ferried to one of our other bases, no need to wait around once you’re there.”

Han ran a hand through his hair, exasperated.

“So, after this am I free to leave?”

Leia fixed him with a stare that would make any man shrink.

“We’ll see.”

Then she was off, as usual her honor guard following her lead. Luke came up from behind Han and frowned.

“Do you really have to leave?” He asked. Luke wasn’t ashamed of how much he wanted Han to stay. He’d asked him enough times. The prospect of Han leaving him fed into enough disappointing daydreams about the future. The galaxy was vast, and the Rebellion had its directives. If Han returned to his previous life as a smuggler there was no way he’d ever see him again. That thought made Luke feel deep sadness. Han looked at him, and upon seeing the expression on his face also frowned.

“Well yeah, kid. I have some debts to pay off, y’know.” He turned away, as if looking at Luke was too difficult. “I tried the military thing before, I wasn’t any good at it.”

“But you don’t have to do the military thing!” Luke said, voice pitching up. “You could help out other ways! And you wouldn’t have to worry about your debts, either! I’m sure the rebellion would make sure you were fine!”

Han laughed at the enthusiasm, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He brought a hand up to grip Luke’s shoulder and squeezed.

“If only life were so easy, kid.” Han said. He opened his mouth as if to say more, but at that moment Chewie came down the ramp and placed a big paw on the crown of Han’s head. He growled something in Shyriiwook and Han’s face turned into a grimace.

“Yeah okay, you big brute! Would you get that stinkin’ paw off me!”

Luke stepped back to watch the two grapple with each other when Jiir, one of the Teal Squadron boys, called him over. He crossed the tarmac and they clasped hands in a brotherly half-hug.

“Horansi tournament tonight, thirty credit buy in. You in?” He asked Luke as they parted.

“Yeah sure, what time?”

“In an hour, rec room.” He said, and then as an afterthought: "Oh, and Wedge was looking for you!”

A flash of confusion crossed Luke’s face. He hadn’t spoken with Wedge since at least a few days before they’d left for Tussa Brast, and he had no idea what it was that Wedge could want from him. He resolved to seek him out after a shower and change, before the tournament started.

Luke didn’t get the opportunity. He arrived to the tournament late, though he wasn’t the only straggler. He tossed in his thirty credits and took a seat on one of the uncomfortable couches. Kasper, one of Rogue Squadron’s beloved mechanics, seemed to be running the books and tournament, and called for order in the rec room. The fevered conversations lulled as he went over the tournament breakdown. Eventually the competitors took their seats at one of the long communal tables, split into two groups for the first round, with the onlookers hooting and hollering behind them.

Luke, who wasn’t particularly good at Horansi, found himself out in no time at all. He looked down the table towards Han, who was focused on his hand, expression belying nothing. The crease between his eyebrows was softer than usual, and his head was bent in focus the way it tended to be during sensitive flight maneuvers.

Over the din of chatter, Luke heard Wedge’s voice, close to his ear.

“Hey, I was looking for you.” He said.

“Yeah, Jiir told me. I couldn’t find you before the tournament.” Luke replied, still looking at Han. “What’s up?”

“Got a gift for you.” Wedge said. “You got some time?”

Luke nodded, and scooted out of his chair. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Han look up for a moment, but when he turned to look back, Han had already resumed his earlier focus. Wedge looked over also, only for a moment, before he addressed Luke again.

“I’ll bring it over to your quarters in a few, you’ll probably need to go through some of it.”

Curiosity nipped at the back of Luke’s mind, and he wanted desperately to ask what it was that Wedge had for him, but he would have to be patient.

“Sure thing, I’ll meet you over there. We’re in the delegation wing, I’m room 03B.”

Wedge nodded and pushed through the throng toward the squad quarters. Luke offered his seat to the person nearest him and set out in the opposite direction. The delegations wing was largely untraveled, the blockade having sufficiently cut off the majority of access to and from Yavin 4. It meant his trip was quiet and quick, and he sat on the edge of the large bed in the center of the room with nothing to do but wait.

Wedge was at the door a half hour later, a large cargo box resting in his palms. Luke moved aside so that he could come in and place the box on the floor.

“So,” He said. “I noticed that sweater I gave you came in pretty handy.” Wedge said.

“Like you wouldn’t believe!” Luke laughed. Wedge’s eyes sparkled with satisfaction.

“Glad to hear it. But I also spoke with Leia and she said you didn’t leave Tatooine with much in the way of garb, so I did some poking around Requisitions on my downtime.”

Wedge bent over to click the release button on the cargo box, and the top popped open with a gentle hiss. Inside were clothes, folded neatly and pressed. He took a stack out and put it on the bed.

“Not sure what will or won’t fit.” He said.

Luke picked up the first item from the stack, and pinching it by the shoulders, let it unfurl. It was a thermal shirt. The fabric was rather thin, but the waffled textile worked as a strong insulator. The powder blue color reminded Luke of a clear dawn sky.

“You should probably try it all on.” Wedge said. “Requisitions only gave me this stuff assuming I’d be giving some of it back, so whatever doesn’t fit—”

Luke shucked off the overshirt he was wearing, and shivered as the cool air of his room hit the bare skin of his shoulders. The thin tank top he wore underneath did little to shield him from the cold. He wasted no time pulling the blue thermal over his head.

“A little big.” Luke said. The sleeves came down to his knuckles, and he pushed them up to his wrists. The fabric was warm, despite its thinness. “But good. I’ll keep this.”

Wedge regarded him for a moment and nodded.

“Probably for the best. I’ve heard some whispers from above that Dodonna’s considering Hoth for a new base. If that ends up being the case that shirt is going to be worth more than tear opals.”

Luke wasn’t sure what a tear opal was, another reference that passed him by. It was an increasingly common occurrence as he interacted more and more with the spacefaring members of the Rebellion. There was no time nor wealth for frivolities like that on Tatooine. Things popular or well-known in the rest of the galaxy rarely made their way to the poorer Outer-Rim planets, even if only in story.

Luke pulled the shirt off again, folding it neatly and setting it apart from the other clothes. He picked up the next item. It was a thick, stiff sweater, drab military green but desaturated to the point of looking almost like dust. He pulled it over himself. It was far too large. The long starched neck came up past his chin. Wedge burst out laughing at the way Luke swam in the stiff fabric.

“You look like a baby boma!” Wedge said between breaths, and Luke couldn’t help but let out a playful growling sound, though he’d never actually heard a boma before.

They made a game of it, Wedge offering his commentary on each item of clothing Luke tried on. Though it made the entire process take far longer, it was much more fun. Luke found he hadn’t laughed so much since long before he’d left Tatooine, and it felt _good_. Wedge was easy to get along with, and their shared trauma after the Death Star meant a default level of trust and brotherhood existed between them. Luke wasn’t short of companionship within the rebellion, but there were few he counted as true friends. Since he’d joined, Wedge had proven himself as one of them.

Luke was pulling off a large, hooded sweater when an insistent knock echoed through the door. He threw the turned-out sweater onto the bed and walked over to answer it, tossing a questioning look over to Wedge before he opened it. He was greeted with the sight of Han, face flushed lightly from the drinking and graced with a resolute expression.

“Han, what are you doing here?“ Luke asked, but Han, who radiated an energy that seemed as if it were buzzing beneath his skin, cut him off.

“Luke, do you have time to—“ He paused abruptly as his gaze caught on Wedge sitting on the edge of the bed, loose clothes strewn beside him. Han, at that moment, seemed to take in that Luke had answered the door in his immodest undershirt. He looked back to Wedge who smiled at him.

“Solo.” He said cheerfully. Han paused a moment again, his gaze flickering between Wedge and Luke. The silence caught Luke off guard. He was so used to the smooth talking, the endless quips and commentary, that Han’s speechlessness threw him for a loop. Eventually Han nodded toward Wedge, as not to be rude.

“Antilles.” He said, and then turned back to Luke. “Sorry, didn’t realize I was interrupting. It can wait till later.”

Han didn’t give Luke the chance to respond, simply turned back the way he came. Luke stood at the doorframe and watched him leave. When he finally turned around, door whirring shut behind him, Wedge burst out into laughter. Luke realized it must have been at the way his face furrowed in confusion at the entire interaction.

“That was strange.” Luke mused. He got an incredulous look in response.

“You... you really don't know what—“ Wedge started, but waved a hand as he thought better of it. “You know what? It's not my place. Look let’s just get through the rest of this, I’ve got maneuvers at daybreak and I still need to swing by Requisitions with whatever you don’t keep.”

Another half hour of Luke struggling in and out of shirts and pants, and two separate piles of folded clothing later, Wedge was out the door with the cargo box, and Luke was putting himself to sleep. He thought laying in the delegate beds—a generous twin size compared to the usual single cots—would have helped sleep come to him quickly, but he found it far too large and cold. He tossed and shivered and turned, willing his mind and body to relax. After an hour of this, he finally grew desperate enough to toss the covers from himself and wander into the hallway. His bare feet slapped quietly along the duracreete floor, the only sound apart from the clattering of night shift on the lowest levels of the temple.

A pang of hesitation swirled in the back of his exhausted mind as he approached the delegation room Han had been assigned. He wondered if Han would turn him away. It almost stopped him from bringing a fist up to rap gently against the door. The feeling persisted as the seconds ticked with no response, but after a minute the door slid open to reveal Han, wearing only briefs and looking every bit asleep. His was squinting, his brow furrowed against the harsh light of the hallway. He fixed Luke with a confused stare.

“Luke? Th’hell r’you down’ up at this hour?” He asked, voice low and rumbling with the frayed edges of consciousness. Luke, tired too, and desperate for some shuteye, felt the trepidation he’d struggled with slide off of him like the broken chips of a shell.

“I can’t sleep. Can I stay with you?”

Han regarded him for a moment and Luke did his best to keep his eyes from wandering down the bare expanse of Han’s chest, or more embarrassingly, lower, to the thin white fabric of his briefs. How quickly had simple curiosity morphed into something far more egregious.

“Weren’t you with—“ Han started, but he cut himself off to run a hand through his hair. “Whatever.” He sighed, and moved so that Luke could slip inside. He shut the door and brought the lights up enough for Luke to navigate the dark room. A moment later, when Luke was settling into the two bed, the lights turned back off, accompanied by the sound of Han’s bare feet against the floor. The bed dipped as Han lay back in the bed, facing away from Luke. Their positions, as they were, lasted only a few minutes. Luke’s ill-contained shivering reverberated through the mattress enough that it drew a frustrated growl from Han. He flipped himself over, hooking an arm around Luke’s waist to pull him close and threw a leg over Luke’s thighs.

“Stop your damn shivering.” He groused into Luke’s ear. Han’s breath smelled faintly of whisky. The hand on his waist came up to skim across Luke’s chest, rubbing across it as if to warm him. It worked, inadvertently, as the flat of Han’s palm passed over Luke’s nipple. He bit his lip, mortified, as he felt it stiffen beneath the sweeping touches, sending sparks of dull pleasure skittering across his chest. Luke feared what would happen if Han kept it up, but before it became an issue, the hand stilled. Han’s fingers curled to rest along the curve of Luke’s ribs, his thumb resting just shy of the pebbled nub.

“Now go t’sleep.” Han murmured, and took no time at all surrendering to unconsciousness. For Luke, it took longer, but once his breathing evened, he, too, fell asleep.

He woke, hours later, in the exact same position. A small miracle, as Luke was as restless in sleep as he was awake. Han, too, hadn’t moved, and his soft exhales tickled the strands of hair that curled around Luke’s neck. Though as Luke took stock, it seemed _something_ overnight had changed. Luke became aware of his hip, more notably, the press of Han’s hard cock against it. The realization tore the last vestiges of sleepiness from him, and instead instilled within him a mild panic. Han would surely be embarrassed if he woke in such a state, and more than that, Luke himself might find himself with a similar problem if he dwelled on it too long. Slowly, and carefully, he extricated himself from Han’s embrace, and slid out of the room.

There was no fear of running into anyone on his way back to his own room, but he rushed regardless. His heart raced as if he’d committed some sort of crime, and below it Luke knew he was being ridiculous. Nothing had happened. Han hadn’t even been awake, and his childish crush hadn’t been any closer to being revealed. He flung himself into his room and then face down onto his bed. They weren’t due to depart for another few hours but he didn’t plan on leaving his room till then.

 

Despite Han’s constant insistence that he was going to leave, he didn’t. And despite Leia’s insistence that each mission would be their last, they never were. Han, Luke and Chewie found themselves bouncing across the galaxy like a group of errand boys, and eventually they stopped returning to Massassi base all together. Instead they would rendezvous with some of the mobile command fleet as Yavin 4 grew more dangerous. War was brewing on the moon, and the Imperial Blockade had strengthened. Dodonna’s quest for a new base of operations had indeed seen Hoth on the shortlist, and had been one of the planets to which forward scout teams had been dispatched.

“If that’s the new base, you’re gonna have a tough time over there.” Han said. “It’s a planet of ice. You ever even seen snow before?”

Luke shook his head. He had no idea what to expect.

“Sure hope you’re dressed for the occasion.”

One of the constants of their frequent travel was the bed-sharing, even though Luke had grown far less sensitive to the cold as time passed. There were no questions. Luke would just fall into bed with Han and they’d huddle close for comfort. Both of them slept soundly through the arrangement, and Luke figured if Han was displeased with it he would have no qualms kicking Luke from his cot.

The trouble was this: Luke’s attachments to Han grew worse the more this happened. There had been the hero worship at the start, the ceaseless awe at Han who had so effortlessly embodied masculinity in a way Luke both envied and admired. But beneath that ran an attraction that Luke had tried desperately to tamp down, as if pretending he wasn’t feeling it could somehow make it stop. He knew there was no reason for Han to ever look at him the same way. Luke had nothing to offer. To Han he was just another snot-nosed brat. A good mechanic and easy to tease, but certainly not something that would stoke desire in him. There were so many people in the Alliance far more attractive than he. Bigger, stronger, more confident and experienced. But it was difficult for Luke to keep a reign on his feelings when the way Han touched him both in the confines of the bunk and in the halls of the ship felt so _intimate_.

 _He’s just a natural flirt_. Luke would reason with himself. He’s like that with everyone. It’s just who he is.

The rationale kept his expectations in check, but despite his best efforts there were times he faltered. Some evenings, late into a game of Sabacc, after a glass or two of whiskey, Han would look at him across the table, eyes low and dark in the dim light. He’d trace his gaze down Luke’s face, and sometimes lower, to where the column of his neck fed into the curve of his collarbone and dipped beneath his shirt. The scrutiny would leave Luke feeling hot in the face, and the want he tried so desperately to manage would uncoil within his belly. And then Han would play his hand, as if nothing had happened and it were little more than a dirty trick.

It kept up like this for months. Luke felt particularly useless being designated such simple tasks when, on their latest rendezvous with the command fleet, they’d learned of a raging battle on the surface of Yavin 4. Finally the tensions between the rebels and the Imperial blockade had boiled over. Almost everything had been cleared from the base, but those who remained were fighting a gruesome and difficult engagement. Luke wanted to help.

“You’ll be far more help to us this way than you would be on the ground.” Leia had told him. She’d placed one of her small hands on his shoulder, and he’d brought his own to cover it. “They’re working hard to let us establish our new foothold as quickly as possible, and that means that they’re going to need to draw this out as long as they can. Having the Empire focused on Yavin 4 takes the heat off of the rest of the fleet. The more we can do without them seeing, the better position we’ll be in when the time comes to deal a blow.”

It had been enough to placate him, but there was still the itch to do something more. Spending days on end inside the Falcon, meditating, playing cards, practicing with his lightsaber, felt like doing nothing at all. He, Han and Chewie weren’t out there risking their necks, not like the troops on Yavin 4.

At least, not until Milagro.

 

Milagro should have been simple and routine. Simple in the sense that all they had to do was break into a civilian office after hours, and routine in that there shouldn’t have been any suspicion surrounding it. There was nothing inherently _dangerous_ about pulling data, not when there was supposed to be minimal security and foot traffic.

Unfortunately there must have been a weak point along the chain of intel, or perhaps even a mole within the Rebellion, because the second they had the data tape in their hands and had cleared the building, they’d also picked up an Imperial tail.

It was how they found themselves in an alleyway, cowering in the corner of some building exit in the busy market district of the capital city Miga Roor. The neon lights that covered every available surface strobed and drenched the streets in sickeningly bright colors that swirled across the press of bodies. Luke had never seen anything like it, and he felt claustrophobic now that he was in it. Or perhaps his quickened breath resulted from the close brush with blaster fire he’d had not ten minutes earlier. The smell of singed fabric and burnt skin wafting up from his upper arm would have been enough to set anyone on edge. The burn pulsed with a nagging pain. Han closed a gentle palm over it.

“You okay?” He asked.

“I’m fine.” Luke replied, brushing off the concern. It was nothing more than an inconvenience. “We need to make a move, and fast. We won’t stay hidden here for long.”

“How far’s the orbital elevator station to our docking bay?”

“Far enough.” Luke frowned. He let his eyes slide shut and felt through the Force like Ben had taught him. “We have to make it at least six blocks to get to the fast transit that’ll get us there. But one of the units on our tail is closing in on us.”

Han’s palm tensed against Luke’s arm. The raw skin throbbed in protest.

“This your Force nonsense again?” Han groused. Behind them, Chewie hazarded a step out into the open alley, and then peeked around the corner wall to glance down the crowded street. He drew his head back almost immediately.

‘ _The cub’s right_ ’. He growled. ‘ _I see at least six helmets. They reflect these ugly lights so at least they are conspicuous._ ’

Han pressed his mouth into a thin line. Luke watched nervously, knowing by the way his brow creased that Han had to be running through their options. The streets were far too crowded to risk a gun fight on either side, but that also depended on how much the Imps knew about why they’d been in the office in the first place. Either way, there was going to be trouble. Chewie was a good foot and a half taller than anyone in the crowds and stuck out like a sore thumb.

“Fuck.” Han finally hissed. More than anything else—their odds, his injury, the nauseating lights and smell—the curse instilled Luke with a true sense of panic. As brash of a man as Han was, he didn’t swear often. Not really. The only times he deigned to curse where when things were about to go—or were currently going—sideways. If he chose to do so now, it meant there was no easy out. Not that Han could see.

“Chewie,” Luke snapped into action, turning towards him. “You know where the station is?” Chewie nodded. “Okay, you go ahead, cut across the alley and stick to the side streets. We’ll rendezvous at the elevator. Han and I will try to draw their attention and then lose them in the crowds.”

Chewie turned back to look down the crowded street, waited a moment, and then ducked and darted across it and into the alleyway across from them. Above the noise of fryers, market chatter, and the trains overhead shooting by on their aerial tracks, the sound of alerted troopers crescendoed.

“Shit.” Han said, pulling Luke towards the street. “We’re in for it now.”

Before they left the relative sanctuary the alley offered them, Han wheeled Luke around to face him and steadied him with hands on his shoulders. The expression on his face was grim, mouth drawn tight.

“Luke, I need you to promise me something. I want you to stay in front of me. Lead the way. No matter what, keep moving forward.” He pulled the data tape from his pocket and pressed it into Luke’s hand. “Keep this safe. And keep yourself safe, okay?”

“Han, don’t be stupid.” Luke hissed. “All three of us are going to make it back to the _Falcon_ in one piece.”

“I sure hope so, kid.”

Then Han was shoving him into the crowds, forming a cage with his arms. Luke watched in his periphery as Han craned his head over the crowd to where the troopers were shoving people aside trying to get to the alley Chewie had ducked into.

“Hey bucketheads!” He yelled, waving his blaster pistol. “Was it us you were lookin’ for?”

Luke vaguely registered the troopers yelling to split up, undoubtedly to send a few bodies to chase Chewie down the backstreets. He hoped the Wookie would manage on his own, and started shoving through the throng. Han followed, close to his back, both of them moving as quickly as they could. For Luke, this part came naturally. He and his friends had gotten into enough trouble the few times they’d dared to sneak out to Mos Eisley, and learning to navigate busy foot traffic and crowded market streets to lose a tail was something he’d had to pick up quickly. It was harder for Han, who didn’t have the same slight frame and jostled people as he barrelled past them.

“How close are they?” Luke huffed.

“Thirty meters, give or take. How many more blocks.”

"The sign we just passed said another two.”

Luke’s lungs were burning, and he was sure Han’s were too if the labored breathing behind him was anything to go by. The air was thick with grease and wok-smoke, and oppressively humid in a way that made every inhale a struggle. Luke cut across the width of the road, urging Han to duck as low as he could to blend in with the crowd in hopes of losing the tail. By the time they’d reached the ornamental durasteel stairs leading up to the rapid transit hub, there were no helmets in sight.

“Think we lost ‘em.” Han panted as they took two steps at a time. There was a train with its doors open already waiting, and they launched themselves into the end car which was blessedly empty. They didn’t sit, instead posting up by one of the opposite door nooks.

“Hopefully this thing leaves soon.” Luke said. He looked up at Han as he tried to catch his breath. The sheen of sweat on his face caught the neon lights that filtered in through the windows and carved each hollow plane with shadow. He wore an expression halfway between panic and relief, a sentiment Luke shared. The doors finally hissed closed, and Luke was about to let his shoulders drop when the heavy thunk of footsteps echoed through the train car.

There wasn’t enough time to process what happened next. All Luke knew was that Han was pressing him tightly to the corner between the closed train door and the duraplex partition, hissing something about Luke grabbing his DL-44 from its holster. The muted distortion of a trooper speaking, and then a blaster going off. _No_. Two concurrent blasters, though one round and deep in sound. Han stiffened at the sound of the shot, followed by a startled shout. Luke could feel his heart beating through his teeth, every part of him seized up in panic. The hiss and fizzle of burning material, plastic by the smell of it, filled Luke’s senses. ' _Han_!' Luke thought. His throat closed up, the word unable to leave him.

From the direction of fire came a thud. Han eased up—smoothly, which told Luke he was okay—so that Luke wasn’t pressed quite as painfully into the corner. He peered out over Han's shoulder to see the body of the trooper lying face down on the train floor. A hole sizzled where a blaster shot had gone straight through his torso. Behind him, a few meters back, stood Chewie, blowing the smoke off of his bowcaster—one of the only weapons capable of leaving such a brutal wound. Luke was given only a second to feel reprieve before little white insects crawled at the corner’s of his vision. He pushed out from beneath Han and dropped himself into one of the empty seats. Luke vaguely realized that he was experiencing shock, and focused on his breathing in hopes of processing it.

Han and Chewie were speaking to each other, but their voices were tinny as if they were miles away. Luke’s stomach churned as his brain worked through its haze to piece everything together. A solitary trooper had managed to follow them on. Han had seen them, and pressed Luke into a corner to shield him with his body. It was only sheer luck, Chewie having made it onto the same car at the same time as them, that had made the Trooper’s shot go wide instead of straight into Han’s body. _An undoubtedly fatal shot_. Low rank troopers didn’t have the strongest blasters, but if they aimed dead on it was enough to stop the heart.

 _Enough._ It would have been enough to kill Han. Han who had covered Luke’s body so completely with his own.

Han, who would have died protecting him.

The train was hurtling above the city’s rooftops, every jitter rolling Luke’s stomach even more. He dropped his head between his knees and screwed his eyes shut. The white flurries persisted even in the darkness, and with the jarring motion of the train, conspired to dizzy him further. He focused on taking long steady breaths through his nose, the way Biggs had taught him the first time he’d nearly sent his speeder into a cliff wall. Through the din he heard the hiss of pressurized doors opening briefly, and assumed Chewie had tossed the trooper’s body out of them.

To his left, the muted thud of feet on duraplast floor signaled Han’s approach. He took a seat next to Luke and brought a wide, warm palm to Luke’s back. It swept soothing circles across the curve of his spine, a steadying weight. Han was speaking, but it was difficult for Luke to hear between the ringing and the rush of blood in his ears. He tried harder to focus on his breath, and to the grounding touch on his back. He registered more movement, Chewie moving to stand near him, and the Wookie’s heat and familiar smell offered a strange sort of comfort. Both of his friends waited patiently as Luke’s breathing found a steadier rhythm, and he returned to himself. A faint ringing still sounded in his ears, and Luke felt a hot flush running overtop of the chilling cold he felt, but it felt less severe with every passing second. Han’s hand fell away as he sat up.

“You okay?” Han asked, brows knit upward with genuine worry.

“Yeah.” Luke murmured. “Yeah—that was—I didn’t expect that. Please never do that again.”

Han frowned, and his jaw twitched like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t. Han usually lacked tact, but when the cause was severe enough could stay himself, and he chose now as one of those times. He looked up to Chewie who towered above them.

“Thank the stars for this guy, huh? Not a moment to soon.” Han declared. He hinged on levity now. To create an atmosphere of calm and control for Luke, who so desperately needed it. “How many more stops to the elevator?"

‘ _Four. Then a six minute ride up._ ’ Chewie replied.

Luke only half listened. He focused instead on his right hand, which had begun to tremble. He let the soothing sounds of Han’s baritone and Chewie’s gentle Shyriiwook blanket him, and watched as the passing lights played over the skin of his shaking hand. When the train pulled into the first stop his whole body tensed, and Han pressed closer to him on the seat, urging Chewie to turn inwards to form a shield.

“I don’t need you two to protect me like I’m some kind of—some kind of child!” He hissed, but inwardly he was glad for it. He felt oddly vulnerable. There was too much of everything on this planet for him to focus. Too much light, too much movement, too much noise. A few bodies shuffled onto the train but the peace remained. He exhaled when the doors shut and closed his eyes.

“Now might be a good time to call on that Force of yours.” Han said. If it had been meant teasingly, it lacked any bite as Han placed his hand over Luke’s to still its trembling.

“Don’t you think I’m trying?” Luke snapped. He felt frustration well up inside of him. He knew he was overreacting, knew he wasn’t following Ben’s lessons, but it was _hard_. Han squeezed his hand reassuringly and let his thumb smooth over the skin.

“Hey, it’s alright.” Han said. “It happens to all of us sometimes. You’ll be okay in a few. Scared the shit out of me too, if I’m honest.”

This time Luke had nothing else to say so he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He focused on his breath again, on the feeling of Han’s hand covering his. Then let himself move outwards in filaments, through Han, through Chewie, through everybody else on the train within the comforting hold of the Force. He let himself expand ever greater till the beating of his heart was only a whisper and the music of the universe roared around him like an orchestra. Its living, breathing energy cradled him till his heart had slowed and every ounce of fear and worry bled out of him. When he opened his eyes next his whole body was still and the train was slowing into their last stop. Han curled his fingers around the width of Luke’s hand with a reassuring squeeze.

“We’re here.”

 

Han shoved a glass of straight whiskey into Luke’s hands before they’d even turned the Falcon on.

“Sip it. Slowly. When we hit the jump I’m having a drink, too, And then you and I,” He pointed between them. "we’re laying down.” Luke watched from his seat as Han circled back towards the cockpit and he turned the glass in his hands a few times. It smelled far better than the Dodbri whiskey they’d had back on Tussa Brast. This one had a sweet odor, nothing that seared the inside of his nose. He took a sip and the spicy warmth bloomed across his tongue and down his throat as he swallowed. Even though it still had a slight burn, Luke found he enjoyed the sensation. It would hopefully take the edge off of the persistent sting of his burned arm. But it wasn’t enough to let his mind stray from the day's events too long.

If anything, the mission had been a wake up call that Luke so desperately needed. Maybe it had been too many months of stagnating that had made him far too comfortable. Too many missions that went off with minimal difficulties. Danger was around every corner, and even outside of Imperial space the long hand of the Emperor could reach them. It was one thing for Luke to take liberties with himself. Luke didn’t fear death anymore, not after he’d seen the smoking husks of his aunt and uncle, not after Ben had died _right in front of him_ , and certainly not after almost everyone he’d gone into the air with at the Death Star had been shot down in a cacophony of exploding fuel and metallic debris. But it wasn’t just Luke anymore. He couldn’t take liberties when Han and Chewie’s lives were on the line, too. Luke knew he was living on borrowed time at this point. But his friends shouldn’t have had to, also. Luke should have been more aware, should have used the Force better, should have sensed the trooper following them. Instead he’d gotten too comfortable, and nearly failed Han in the worst conceivable way.

There it was again. That clenching feeling in his chest. Han would have taken blaster fire for him. Han, who hadn’t even signed up for the Rebellion. Han, who had shunned all attachments to live a life free of shackles. Luke didn’t want to think about what would have come after if the trooper’s shot had indeed landed. A galaxy without Han Solo in it seemed like it would be awfully cold.

The ship rattled. Luke felt a light G force that pressed him gently into the acceleration couch, and he let himself settle into the cushions. They’d be plotting a hyperspace jump soon, and in under a day they’d be rendezvousing with the flotilla. Back to normalcy, or at least, as much as Luke recognized normalcy as now. A few days, likely, to recover, and then they’d be off again. He hoped he’d have enough time to catch up with Wedge. Their rotations were so different, it had been almost a month since they’d last seen each other.

Luke took another sip as the second rattle came, followed by the eerie stillness of hyperspace. A moment later Han was rounding the corner and moving to grab a glass. Luke watched as he poured himself three fingers of whiskey, downed them, and poured another three. Luke finished his own drink, tipping it back, and dropped the empty glass on the table. He felt the fuzzy warmth of the alcohol winding through his body, slowing his heart, easing the pain. Han leveled him with a serious look before he slammed back the rest of his whiskey. Then he stepped in front of Luke. His body stood rigidly. He carried the tension from earlier in his shoulders and his spine and all the way down to his free hand which curled into a fist at his side.

“Come.” He finally said.

Luke rose without preamble and followed him into the crew quarters. They fell into their evening routine quietly, Han heading into the ‘fresher and Luke grabbing his change of clothes out of the bulkhead compartment he’d claimed as his own. While he waited for Han he sat on the edge of his cot and pulled the collar of his shirt to bow his head and take a sniff. He smelled of stress sweat and the wok-grease of the market district. He’d hop in the sonic, too, then.

Han emerged a few minutes later in only a pair of briefs, his worn clothes balled up in his fist.

“‘Fresher’s free.” He said simply, and Luke rose to move past him.

When he emerged again feeling as if at least part of the day was behind him, Han was already laying on his back on the cot. Luke tossed his dirty clothes on his own empty bunk and moved towards him. He had words for Han, and now was as good a time as ever to broach the subject.

“Han, about tod—“

“Don’t.” Han cut him off. “Don’t. Because you can say it till you’re blue in the face. I’m not gonna listen.”

“Well I’m gonna say it anyway! I don’t want you doing that!” He bristled. “Not ever!”

“Sure you don’t.” Han countered. “You didn’t seem to mind so much when I came back for you on the Death Star."

That was enough to give Luke pause. It was true. He hadn’t felt the same helpless anger and frustration when Han had returned for him. And sure, Luke would have been dead without him, and everyone else on Yavin IV, so maybe there was some of that pressure associated, but it wasn’t only that. There was a reality Luke had to face down. Whatever innocent threads of vague attraction Luke had felt towards Han in those first days, they’d strengthened, wound around his heart into something pulsing and powerful. It lived, undeniably, inside of him and took up more and more space until it couldn’t be ignored any longer.

He cared about Han now. More than he had ever cared to admit. In ways that were vulnerable and frightening and ran deep into Luke’s core.

Luke hesitated at the edge of the bed, worrying a lip between his teeth. He wanted to argue further. He wanted Han to know that he wasn’t a kid, that he didn’t need protection, didn’t need Han acting like a human shield for him. And even deeper than that, he wanted Han to know exactly _why_ he couldn’t stand for it. He wanted Han to know that Luke feared living in a galaxy without him. There was embarrassment, too, attached to that childish sentiment, but it wanted so desperately to break free of the secret cage within which it lived. Instead of speaking, his eyes grew distracted and took in Han’s body, propped up on a single elbow and facing him. The expression on his face was difficult to discern, it flickered somewhere between worry, relief, fear, but all beneath an imperceptible mask of something _else_. Luke lost himself. He found his eyes tracing a path across Han’s jaw, and then down his neck and chest as if his gaze had developed a mind of its own. But stars, he was beautiful like this and Luke didn’t want to stop looking his fill. Not when he could have lost Han so easily today—not when—

“Luke.“ Han said, so quietly that the name seemed to exist only on the breath with which it was spoken. His eyes snapped back to Han’s and that was all it took. Han circled his wrist, pulling so that Luke fell onto his knees on the cot, and then Han was surging up to kiss him.

Luke knew what this was. It happened enough on base after any squadron had a close brush with death. They’d come back, pretend like they weren’t shell-shocked, and drink and sleep with each other until they’d worked it out of their systems. Of course it would happen now, with Han having just risked his life. And Luke was here, a willing and pliant participant, equally rattled, but certainly not the first choice. He wrestled with a brief flash of hesitance, but it was extinguished beneath the possibilities the present offered him. Luke wouldn’t squander his one opportunity to bed Han, even if it wasn’t under the circumstances he would have fantasized about.

But he had certainly fantasized about the feeling of Han’s lips against his own. His gaze had lingered on them enough times to commit them to memory and now he’d memorize the feeling of their softness, too. Han kissed him with a fervid desperation that bloomed a feral heat in Luke’s belly. He found himself reaching his free hand to tangle in Han’s thick hair, and tightened his grip to tug on it. What a beautiful sound it pulled from him, a low and throaty growl that went straight to Luke’s groin. When he licked into the soft, velvety heat of Han’s mouth with an insistent tongue, Han dropped his wrist, clamped both hands onto his hips and manhandled Luke to straddle his lap.

This position allowed Luke to grind forward, relieving some of the pressure of his swelling cock against the taut plane of Han’s belly. Han broke their kiss for a moment to grind his own answering hardness into Luke’s rear. Feeling Han, just as flushed with arousal, Luke let himself steep in the fantasy that this engagement was fueled by more than adrenaline. That fantasy bolstered him as he rocked back against Han’s cock in response. A pair of hands slid up the back of Luke’s shirt to cradle his shoulder blades, and Han broke their kiss. His calloused touch on Luke’s bare skin brought with it a deep and penetrating sense of security. If it were an option, Luke would have lived beneath those palms. He blinked his eyes clear for a moment to look Han in the face.

“Is this okay?” Han asked. There was concern in his dark eyes, shadowed beneath his heavy furrowed brow. Luke looked at him, traced the worried creases, the sensual pout of his lower lip. Han’s face, which he’d seen so plainly every day for so long, had an eminent vulnerability here that he’d not seen before. And Luke would remember it as best he could, this rare image. He moved to answer, the words in his throat coalescing into sentiments like _’more than okay'_ and _'I’ve wanted this for too long'_ and _’please don’t throw me away afterwards'_ , but they died on his tongue and gave way only to a quiet and breathy 'Yes’.

Han answered with a searing kiss, tongue pressing into Luke’s mouth. Luke drank in the taste, whisky sweet and watery. Han's hands roved without discrimination, seeming unable to settle on any one part of Luke. They skimmed up his sides, traversed the length of his thighs, slid up his neck to cradle his jaw. In the fantasies Luke had allowed himself, he'd imagined Han would be more suave. The perception of Corellians was that they were sensual lovers, experienced and patient. But Han’s urgency seemed to run counter to that idea. He kissed and touched Luke with a desperation that bordered on fumbling. A part of Luke wondered if that was a product of facing down death or if instead the rumors about Corellians were simply a falsehood. Not that it mattered whether Han’s palms on his skin moved with painstaking deliberation or a compulsive hunger, only that they moved across it at all.

His train of thought derailed as Han’s hands slid downward beneath sleep pants to grab Luke’s rear. They dug into the forgiving flesh to bring Luke’s hips forward and he moaned into Han’s mouth at the commanding touch. A sober thought cut through the fog of arousal, insisting that Luke dial it down, that his desperation was too much, too obvious. But that tiny, weak spark was quickly overwhelmed by the sensations curling around each nerve ending, emanating from every place Han’s body pressed against his. As Luke ground his cock against Han’s stomach again, a questing finger dipped into the cleft of his ass to circle around his rim. He drew in a sharp breath, halfway between surprise and pleasure. Han tugged at Luke’s earlobe with his teeth teasingly.

“I wanna fuck you.” Han murmured, hot breath dancing along the shell of an ear. Arousal swirled through Luke's veins, trailed by trepidation. The way Han spoke, the thought of Han inside of him, and his touch where no one else had touched before were doing little to reign him in. But he’d never gone that far. There’d never been time or space for it on Tatooine. Not in the narrow alleys of Anchorhead and certainly never in his own bedroom. But he could have it here and now if he wanted. And, stars, did Luke _want_. Han pressed forward with the tip of his finger, insistent. “Can I fuck you?”

What little hesitation Luke held on to left him as the scales tipped violently. Seeing this as his only chance, the dam of repressed passion crumbled. Luke pushed back against the firm grip with a whine.

“Yes,” He said, seeking out Han’s mouth again. “Please."

The hands on Luke’s rear withdrew to tug at the hemline of his shirt. They broke their kiss only long enough to tear it off, and then Luke was pushing Han to lay back on the cot. It was easier to rut against him in this position, and the slide of their bare torsos lit his nerves on fire. Han’s skin was searingly hot and a thin sheen of sweat clung to him. Luke wanted to drag his tongue through the moisture that gathered in the dip of his collarbone. He wanted to memorize the taste of Han’s skin, just another sense with which to know him.

“Gimmie a second, sweetheart.” Han said, pushing gently at Luke’s chest. “Get us naked the rest of the way while I grab something.”

Luke did as he was told, backing off of Han to tug his sleep pants off of himself. He noted, absently, that air in the room no longer felt cool as it hit his bare skin. Below him, Han turned his upper body to lean off the side of the cot, pulling open a storage compartment beneath the bed to rifle through. The movement tensed all of the muscles of his abdomen and Luke let his eyes rove down Han’s body, following the line of chest hair that trailed down to his crotch. And _stars_ , Han’s briefs were truly scandalous. The thin white fabric did nothing to hold his rock hard cock in, nor to mask the damp wet spot at its tip. Luke’s mouth watered. He hooked his fingers beneath the waistband and pulled them down, edging them off of Han’s feet.

Luke let himself appreciate Han for just a moment, bared fully for him. His cock was thick and curved up into the cut of his hip. The thatch of hair surrounding it was trimmed neatly in a way Luke’s own was not. He let his hands smooth up the soft skin of Han’s inner thighs. The muscles trembled beneath his fingertips as he touched. Each inch traversed became a physical catalogue of Han’s body, burned into the skin of his palms. Luke let a hand slide up to circle the velvety hardness of Han’s cock and gave it a few loose strokes. It was bigger than Luke's own, girthy and masculine in the way Luke would have imagined. He felt his own cock twitch in interest when Han's breath hitched at a particular touch. Even if they didn't have sex, Luke would have been happy to do this, to sit above Han's prone form and jerk him off. To look into his face as he came. The thought wound him up even more. Luke bit his lip, pausing to smear the precome at the tip when Han flipped himself back onto the bed with a vial in hand.

“C’mere.” He growled as he pulled Luke up and into another kiss. Han’s palms were blazing hot brands trailing up Luke’s arms, down his sides and back to cup his rear and bring their hips together again. There was no break in the urgency now. Each slide of their bodies was frenetic. And Luke couldn’t get enough. He dipped his head to lick up the column of Han’s neck, a tinge of salt blooming on his tongue. Beneath his lips fluttered an erratic pulse, and that same rhythm echoed within his own veins. He trembled at the thought of their chaotic synchronicity, bound together in this moment by a shared heartbeat.

Somewhere amid their fervid movements, Han remembered his prior directive. He brought a slicked finger back to skim around Luke’s hole for a moment before slowly pressing inside. For Luke, whose senses were already overloaded, the mix of unfamiliarity and discomfort were a shock, and one he expressed vocally. Han’s other hand guided Luke’s hip so that they continued to rut against each other, and he murmured soothing encouragements into Luke’s ear. Luke took in a shuddering breath, trapped on some plane between sensations. When he'd relaxed enough, a second finger slid in alongside the first to fuck into him. The knowledge that some part of Han was inside of him helped ease the discomfort into a torrid pleasure that caused his face to burn and eyes to water as Han's fingers slid and scissored along his inner walls. Luke pressed his forehead into the pillow by Han’s head to hide his embarrassing reactions. The temporary refuge, though, didn’t stop the whine that tore from his throat when Han pulled his fingers out, leaving him empty.

“My wrist." Han murmured, tapping Luke’s hip. “Bad angle. Get on your front.”

Luke withdrew and did as he was told, allowing Han maneuver out from under him. He laid himself out on his his belly and ground his hips into the cot. His cock ached, but it was a discomfort secondary only to the anticipation he felt. Luke arched into Han’s hands as they skimmed up the backs of his thighs to grope at his rear. He loved the exploratory touches. He’d never known that simple contact to the skin of his leg could cause such a blissful resonance to hum up the entire length of his spine. It was so simple, too, to extend the fantasy, that the touches were for _him_ and him only. That above him Han was looking at his body with appreciative hunger because it was _Luke_ sprawled out before him.

The hands on his rear slid around to grip his hips and Han pulled Luke so that he was propped upward on his knees, back slanting downwards onto he cot.

“Keep your head where it is.” Han said when Luke tried to perch up onto his elbows. He colored again. The position left him exposed and vulnerable in ways he never had been before. But perhaps it was for the best that it be Han to do this. Han, who he trusted implicitly with every facet of his being. And now, Luke supposed, that was true in every sense. No one else had seen him like this, had touched him with quite this degree of intimacy. But Luke’s internal platitudes didn’t console him completely. He was still bared open in front of Han with his thighs spread wide and cock leaking desperately. Han looked at him a moment longer, and then, without speaking, slid two slicked fingers back into him. It was enough to pull Luke out of his ruminations. His embarrassment dissipated. At this angle, Han’s fingers went far deeper, and on the third thrust skimmed over something inside of him that sent a burst of molten pleasure coursing through his body. Little fragments of white light danced behind his eyelids, a rasping breath tore loose from his lungs at the suddenness. As Han continued to fuck into Luke with his fingers, Luke angled himself so that he could reach a hand down to grasp his leaking cock and stroke himself at a pace that bordered violence.

Behind him, Han bit off a sound. His fingers stuttered for a moment, but as Luke gasped into the sheets they regained their agency, matching the pace of his hand. Each downward thrust angled perfectly, hitting that spot inside him with blinding accuracy. Luke found himself staring at the precipice, and it was too much, too soon. He clenched around Han’s fingers, desperate for their joining.

“More.” He said, voice hoarse and impatient and every bit as petulant as Han loved to tease him about. “Just put it in me already!”

But Han didn’t indulge him. Not immediately. He continued his pace, bringing Luke as close to the edge as he could, until Luke had to squeeze a hand around the base of his erection to keep from coming. It was then that Han finally withdrew his fingers. Behind him, Luke could hear the snap of a cap again and a moment later felt the blunt head of Han's cock at his entrance. Han rubbed it against Luke’s hole, hesitantly, as if giving Luke the opportunity to back out. But there was no desire to cut this short, only the overwhelming need to feel Han to sink into him. For Han to fuck him. To know him in this way in case the worst imaginable thing happened and he wouldn't get to know him at all. At the urgency the feeling elicited, Luke dug an impatient foot into the back of Han’s thigh.

“Han!”

Whether it was the use of his name or the borderline pathetic tone with which it was uttered that spurned Han on was unclear, but it had the desired effect. With a final groan, Han pressed in, a hand guiding him in and another rubbing soothingly across the skin of Luke’s lower back. His entry was agonizingly slow, Luke could have catalogued the shape of Han's cock from feeling alone. He split his focus on the wide palm that swept across his lower back. Han's gentle touch did little to ease the pain, which fanned out and ebbed a dull rhythm at the base of Luke’s spine. This part hadn’t been entirely anticipated, and he pressed his face further into the pillow to distract himself from it, knowing that—like the cold—it was something he just had to get used to.

Han didn’t bottom out first, instead he started up with short, shallow thrusts, both hands moving to grip Luke's hips. In no time at all, the pain waned into a distant ache and at the forefront built a mounting pleasure that caused Luke's thighs to tremble. Some of the tension he held dissipated letting him arch his back more, and it was then that Han finally slid all the way in. When his hips were flush with Luke’s ass, Han dropped himself down onto his arms and placed an open mouthed kiss onto Luke’s shoulder.

“You’re so fucking tight.” He groaned against Luke’s skin. _The cursing again_. His thrusts at this angle were slow and deep, carrying with them a steady and predictable bliss. Every part of Luke’s body felt full, heavy and light all at once. His heart lurched at Han’s husky voice and the words it carried. “M’ not gonna last long. I’m real keyed up.”

Luke wound both his ankles around Han’s calves, as if that could bring them any closer together. Han’s entire front was practically glued to Luke’s back, blisteringly hot. Their skin slid easily, aided by the fine layer of perspiration between them. Luke could feel each heavy thud of Han’s heart where his ribcage shifted up the length of his back. As Han fucked into him languorously, Luke felt his face grow hot, and his eyes burned beneath his lids again. He could feel each inward stroke as if it were filling his whole body. _Han was inside of him_. At the thought, Luke let out a choked off sob and wound his hand so tightly into the sheet that his knuckles turned white.

“Me neither.” He managed between breaths. “Come on.”

Han obliged him, pushing himself up a bit for leverage. He set a pace, no less deep but far more harsh. It sent Luke shifting up the sheets with each thrust. The muscles that lined his belly clenched spasmodically. Han shifted, adjusting the angle of his fucking, looking for the spot he'd found earlier. He was rewarded for his effort with a desperate whine, and Luke's whole body shuddered around Han's cock. The sound of skin on skin, of harsh breaths and bitten off sounds built over the ambient sounds of the ship. As the sensations built, Luke tried to reach down to take himself in hand. Before he could, Han batted his fingers away and placed his own around Luke’s cock, matching his strokes to the near-brutal pace he set. There was hardly time to breathe between the overwhelming pleasure, tinged with a subtle hot pain below its surface. Every line in Luke’s body grew more tense, and soon sounds spilled unbidden from his open mouth. He moved to rest on his cheek, to draw air in more easily as each breath rattled his body. A similar tension had crept into Han, too, their fucking growing more erratic with it.

Luke let out a desperate keen, so close now. Above him individual beads of sweat dropped from Han’s chest and forehead onto Luke’s already heated skin, so sensitive that he could have counted each one if he’d had the presence of mind. He tried to meet Han’s trusts, seeking that perfect, final rhythm to push him over the edge. At the behest of a particularly strangled cry, Han shifted the flat palm that rest by Luke’s hand to thread their fingers tightly together. Luke blinked through the stinging sweat in his eyes to look upon their joined limbs, and distantly, came upon the realization that he had never actually held anyone’s hand before. _Not like this._

And that was it.

Luke's orgasm rushed up on him with the violence of a dying star. He could do little more than try to breathe through it. His whole body grew taut as a bowstring, his grip on Han’s fingers nearing pain. The tendrils of pleasure that had coursed through him now flooded past his veins, pulsing ecstasy into each nerve ending. He felt his release splatter onto his chest, cock pulsing between the tight circle of Han’s fingers. Through the haze of his own bliss he heard Han’s answering groan and felt the way his muscles locked up as he drove his hips forward with bruising resolve, barreling towards his own climax. Within him, Luke the moment Han came, emptying himself into the ardent body beneath him. The hand on Luke's cock retreated to grip almost painfully at Luke's hip. Luke, still trembling but finally stable, now took Han’s weight as he rode out his own release. The hot panting breaths at Luke’s neck fanned across his cooling skin, and carried with them beautiful broken sounds. Luke felt desperation flare up within him again, and felt beneath his exhaustion a mild horror that he still hungered for Han so. Had this not been enough to sate him?

With one final, valiant sigh, Han collapsed fully onto him, and Luke let his legs slide down so the two of them were flat on the bed. His breaths still came raggedly to him, but each one found itself steadier than the last. Han’s body was a damp inferno above him, nearing a crush. But Luke bore the weight gladly. He would bear it always, if he could. The two of them lay there, breathing deeply, until finally, Han untangled their hands and laughed into Luke’s shoulder.

“That’s one way to unwind, I guess.”

The cold settled into Luke’s sweaty skin as Han lifted himself up enough to pull out of Luke and roll to his side. Luke wasted no time grasping the pushed-aside sheets and pulled them over their bodies. He let the exhaustion of the day melt him into the cot and slid his eyes shut. Behind him, Han pressed up against Luke's back, slick and warm and safe. Sobriety had begun to leech back into his veins, displacing the fervent pleasure that had been there just moments earlier, and it blew his fantasy away like a fine layer of dust. In the cradle of Han’s arms he could pretend, just for tonight, but the knowledge that the morning would bring with it a return to normalcy cut Luke deep enough to almost regret their coupling.

_Almost._

“We should clean up.” Han murmured. Luke had no desire to move. Each moment that passed caused his body to feel heavier. He responded with a sound of malcontent, letting Han know he didn’t plan to move.

“Or not.” Han said in conciliation. He slid a hand between their bodies to press a gentle, consolatory touch against Luke’s slick, used hole. Luke could feel Han’s seed leaking from him and knew that he’d regret his laziness in the morning. But he was so _tired_ now, and Han was _still touching him_. Han's tone was apologetic when he spoke again. “I’m sorry. I went a bit overboard. You’re probably gonna be sore tomorrow.”

Luke hummed, his consciousness barely clinging to him. He wasn’t sure what to expect in the morning, how he’d feel or where he’d hurt. Experiences limited to rushed handjobs hadn't prepared him. “Am I?” He asked with an innocent, sleepy curiosity. It hid nothing, laid bare only the truth, one Luke hadn’t exactly tried to hide, but hadn’t divulged either. And if he’d been more awake he’d realize the implications of his question, and perhaps even those of Han’s response.

Han's hand retreated to cradle Luke’s hip, the way it always did, but it held onto the bone with a startled urgency.

“Are you?” Han paused, seeking the words. “Luke was that—was that the first time you’ve done that?”

Sleep, fraying the edges of Luke’s mind, kept him from sensing the distress that laced Han’s tone. Any perceptiveness he would have had in wakefulness was gone. Luke only hummed an affirmative, dismissing the conversation, before the last pulls of sleep took him under. The weight of the day ground him into an impenetrable unconsciousness.

He slept. Deeply. But if Luke had stayed awake, he would have known that Han didn’t sleep that night at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I love hearing feedback!! Love it? Hate it? It's ok? I'm a garbage writer? Know a cool fact about space? Tell me all about it!!!


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